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Rain from the west,
cleaning the wind, while
still mist hems, bank and river.
Cormorant in the slow water,
slender as a shade. In the branches
of blackthorn, thrawn grown in gale,
magpie and crow bicker,
amongst the sloe, promising should
they meet in the thin time of winter
to eat well of one another.
Here the waters bleed
fresh and salt. Where
the land drain empties,
they found the Pritchard boy,
known still by the red shock
of his hair, rusting the water,
bloated with the years left
unlived; a bland face, unwritten,
loved yet by his mother.
In this time of winter and water
brittle with dawn ice
birthed in mist
a promise fattens.
From The Journal no. 12 (Autumn 2004)
Vivienne Westwood, a cento
The garment should say: ‘I am this’
A story of itself
It’s just so creative to put a sentence together
Greet me by ‘how lovely you are’ rather than ‘I like your hat’
I haven’t thought properly about dying
But if I were to write anything on my tombstone
It would be ‘The only revolution is culture’
Every time I speak to someone, I assume they understand
How easy it would have been not to lead this life
I could have been a schoolteacher
What you are given for free should not be owned
Love affairs go a long way to helping life pass you by
Behave according to the clothes
Forget yourself and you will become who you are
I am the centre of my look, like Chanel was
Punk was kids having a great time, but for what? I don’t know
If I go into a room and see Pamela Anderson looking incredible
I’m going to be delighted
The sun makes my skin itch when I’m on a bicycle
A nude is never really naked
I know exactly what I would like my legacy to be
Form is always becoming something else
I design for a world that doesn’t exist, you know, one like this but better
I wake up in the morning
And think
People are alive
Making things, children
And apps, they
Are running to one
Another and then my arm
Falls asleep.
Most of the men
Who did not exactly know
They were my father
Are dead
And so
My father keeps
dissolving.
Tonight
Both my sons are sleeping
At their mom’s apartment.
I can’t always feel
My legs
But I don’t want to tell
Anyone. I’m so afraid
Of everything.
When I called Mary
To ask her how Ralph died
I ended up calling Mary
To tell her that Ralph died.
I think I can pretend
To be a person for
Maybe only a few more years.
And after that,
The moon is just going to
Have to defend itself,
The shadows
In the tall grass are just
Going to have to learn
How to self-soothe.
My sons will just have
To learn something
About fathers
Who leave without knowing
They are leaving.
Whether I’m here,
Not being able to feel
My face,
Or not here and my face
Is just the light above the grass.
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